I once thought the world was something it is most certainly not. I once had dreams, visions of what life could be- fantasies fed by the over bearing media sculpted illusion. A quixotic menagerie of exceptional lives that became my ideal. I should be ashamed to say it, but I own up to my ignorance. My life is nothing if not my own; I must carve out my own niche, and not be infatuated by the shine of one alien to me.
Why is it that we envy? Do we even understand that many folks who live these ideal lives are all surface for our understanding. We know nothing of the poor innerworkings that shake their foundations, much like our own.
My second book is ready. It's been ready. Seems like I have been waiting for the right time to present it. That time is now. Maybe it will finally allow me to be the individual I hunger to be, and the being God needs me to be. Somehow, that is probably wrong. I am already the man I need to be. I am Marcelle. I am Marcelle's life. Life and Marcelle are the same.
Why is it that we envy? Do we even understand that many folks who live these ideal lives are all surface for our understanding. We know nothing of the poor innerworkings that shake their foundations, much like our own.
My second book is ready. It's been ready. Seems like I have been waiting for the right time to present it. That time is now. Maybe it will finally allow me to be the individual I hunger to be, and the being God needs me to be. Somehow, that is probably wrong. I am already the man I need to be. I am Marcelle. I am Marcelle's life. Life and Marcelle are the same.